Unapologetic

once, there was a poor little boy— not poor in coins, but in comfort. not poor in food, but in love. he had a mother who held a bottle tighter than her children, who traded bedtime stories for silence and babysitters. she didn’t know the sitter wore a smile like a wolf wears fur— pretty, but hiding teeth. the poor little boy was left in that house again and again and again— his body learning what his mind couldn’t name. in school, when the word “sex” was said, he tilted his head like a puppy chasing a sound. “what’s that?” he asked, honest, small. the class laughed. a boy yelled: “when a penis goes in—” and the teacher turned, just in time to hear the poor little boy say, 'oh, I've done that heaps of times at home.' the room froze. the teacher didn’t. she pointed to the corner, not the pain. punished the words, not the wound. he grew into a teenager with shame in his bones. carrying hands taught by trauma, not by consent. he touched someone wrong —because someon...

A once poor little boy, now a grown man- abandonment issues stitched into his skin, trust issues rooted deep, especially with women. A once poor little boy, now a grown man- who struggled with fidelity all his life, never quite able to offer mutual respect to the women he loved. Or tried to love. Or pretended to love just to feel something. This poor little boy- as a child, had a mother who was an alcoholic. Everyday, she left him and his siblings in the care of a babysitter. That babysitter- was the poor little boy's abuser. A woman. Trusted. Smiling. Dangerous. His life was beginning to be paved- with silence, with confusion.  Poor Little Boy In primary school, the topic of sex came up. Poor little boy, confused by the word, asked innocently, "What is that?" Laughter erupted. A classmate, snickering, blurted out: "When a penis goes into a girl's private place." The teacher overheard. She moved to silence it- but before she could, poor little ...